


the three laws (or, a means to an end)

by Fernstrike



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Minor Original Character(s), long conversations, lots of politicking, sneaky sauron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/pseuds/Fernstrike
Summary: In which a certain silver-tongued prisoner worms his way into Ar-Pharazôn's mind.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	the three laws (or, a means to an end)

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was inspired by the artwork [Seductive Prisoner](https://www.deviantart.com/qitian/art/A-Seductive-Prisoner-853518307) by the incredible Lyra - check out the link for some great commentary on the artwork, much of which went into my thoughts on this fic.

## 

## I. WISDOM

Ar-Pharazôn looked from the bruised grape in his hand, to the Maia standing before him tall and straight as an ancient tree, to his King’s Warrior stood by the door. Unlike months past, his hand no longer lay ready on his sword, but rested by his side.

“It is my understanding,” Pharazôn addressed the man, “that you believe someone other than your King has the capacity - nay, the mandate - to meet your needs and desires.”

His Warrior swallowed heavily, bowing slightly. “I claim no such arrogance, your grace. In - in my words to you earlier I only thought of powers beyond mortal hands that may yet alleviate the perils of this mortality. All our people do. My devotion is to you and you alone, my lord. My every action is for the sake of your wellbeing, and for our that of our great country.”

Pharazôn returned his piercing stare to Sauron, who gazed passively back. “There you have it. It seems that even the one guard I trust completely on this island has been taken in by your promises, Ring-lord,” he said disparagingly, favouring mockery at this moment over revealing more of the furious storm within him. 

His first instinct was anger - anger, and envy, and an abiding need to lock this Maia in irons once more and cast him into a forgotten cell, as he had done to him and countless other opponents in years past, evidence or no evidence. It had been foolish to favour someone who was clearly a potent political adversary.

The cleverer part of him knew that his favour stemmed from this creature being one of the most learned he’d ever encountered, wise in matters that Pharazôn - loathe as he was to even acknowledge his limits - could never even breach. He knew secrets, and methods, and had insights into the making at the heart of the world that could make Pharazôn master of it. He, who had already wrested the title of master and Lord of Men from a lesser god through his own strength of will and might. It would be prudent to understand someone who had taken great pains to show his power, in order to better control him, rather than throwing him immediately to the sharks. That attitude had led him to this point, after all, where everyone from the prison cook to his Councillor of the Treasury had been taken in. It had been a dangerous underestimation.

But the fearful part of him? That spoke the loudest, resonating in his bones like the echo of someone calling out inside a tomb. It sounded like his own voice - decades and decades younger, staring into the chasm of death that rested in the shadowed dips of the carved effigies in the family mausoleum. It hung there, cold and alone, asking questions of those powers beyond mortal hands.

His nail pierced the grape, and he dropped it uneaten into the bowl.

“What do you say, then?”

“I cannot say,” Sauron replied smoothly, clasping his hands before him and bowing slightly. “I live by the same oaths of fealty your men have made to you, o great king. Should you choose to continue showing me mercy and generosity by allowing me to move freely within the palace complex, to share my knowledge, and to speak with whom I choose, I shall endeavour to demonstrate my gratitude with…greater efficacy.” He looked up, and his golden eyes burned in a way that made Pharazôn’s heart skip a beat. “However, your grace, if you should decide that I am become a thorn in your side, I will gladly and graciously return to my cell, there to dwell in your keeping until the ending of eternal Númenór.”

The King should have been used to his honeyed words by now and the games they played, speaking around one another. He should have been able to see past them, to resist the sensations of power that rose in his chest upon hearing them. He should have been above the cruel pride of having a being like this on such a tight leash. But he was not. He knew it, and with an audible scoff, he did not contest it. He nodded curtly at his Warrior. “Dismissed.”

The man saluted sharply, the metal plates hammered into his tunic clattering against the doorframe as he hastily exited. Sauron half turned, an amused smile on his face.

Pharazôn tutted. “Stop terrifying them. And lock the door.”

The Maia seemed somewhat surprised, but conceded, turning the deadbolt. “It is not I that terrifies them, your grace. It is their own ignorance.”

Pharazôn raised an eyebrow. “You believe my councillors and guards, wisest and most skilled in the land, are ignorant?”

“All that inhabit this world are,” the Maia placated, returning to stand before him. “There is simply too much of the world and everything beyond it for each person to know. There is neither crime nor shame in that.”

“There is shame in staying ignorant,” the King returned. “Imagine a Númenór ignorant of its strength, a people ignorant of its destiny, leaders ignorant of their obligations. What kind of savage world did we let Middle-earth become because the old kings cowered beneath dreams of Elven glory? It is sickening.”

“As usual, your grace, you see clearly that which others overlook,” said Sauron, his eyes seeming to flash. “And as I have said to you in days past, this is not a truth that every Ainu would tell you. To speak with honesty, there are very, very few remaining who would.”

“And why is that?”

“Because truth is not the province of the Valar that dwell in the West, nor those of most of my kind who dote upon them.” A note of bitterness entered his voice and he looked out the window, the setting sun catching on his skin and hair like little licks of flame. “It is a travesty I have tried to rectify more than once on the continent. But ever I have been defeated.” He looked down with a small smile. “And indeed, I have had my arrogance put in check by you, great king, for as I said - no one person may be the guardian of the whole truth. Such a thing is selfish.”

“And are you a bastion of charity?” Pharazôn snorted. 

“I am a servant.” 

The King tapped his forefinger on the table. Glancing down, he observed the shadows of the dying day picking out the hollows where his skin had started to thin, becoming soft, even spotted in some places. Slapping his palm down on the table, he rose, walking to his balcony. “Not so long ago you purposed to drive all we Númenóreans into the sea. Indeed, had you the chance, you would have brought this whole island to heel.” He turned back, cocking his head to one side. “Was it truly smote pride that opened up this generosity?”

He considered a moment, then stepped forward into the sunlight that spilled in a cool orange over the sandstone buildings. “I think that when one has been soundly beaten, it is only proof that the conqueror was the greater in more than just strength of arms. So power ought to add to power, rather than divide, and greater prizes be taken through unity and concordance rather than discord.”

“Discord,” Pharazôn grumbled, looking out at the streets below, and off at the smudge in the horizon that marked the first outlying villages before Rómenna. “There is far too much of that on this island these days. If only Amandil -”

“Speak not ill of your friends my lord,” Sauron cut in, bowing low to assuage his interruption. “They know not what they do.”

“And this is the ignorance you speak of.” 

“Remedied through any means necessary.” 

Pharazôn frowned, leaning against the balcony. “That is exactly the counsel that Amandil has been all but waging war against during Council. He traces the men who espouse it back to you, you know.” 

“As he feels he must.” 

“Is his fight wrong, then?” It was meant to be a question to keep the Maia talking. To learn more of him, critically, than Pharazôn had attempted to do before. And yet the question hit a deeper chord within him, something right in his gut. A sensation that he knew someone outside him had to confirm as being valid, and right, and just.

“Men play at war from cradle to grave,” the Maia stated. “Few know how to properly wage it, let alone achieve their ends through it. They fail to understand that war is merely the continuation of policy by other means.”

“The dissatisfaction and despair of my people, of my empire, is hardly a matter of mere policy," Pharazôn said testily.

“Hardly,” he affirmed, nodding with deference. “No, my lord, I believe policy is shaped by the desires that you whisper to yourself at night, when the clouds have blocked out the stars and moon and you are alone with the shadows. These are the kinds of desires men almost never attain, for they are secrets, and vain wishes. But to you, my lord, they have ever been a challenge, open and enunciated. How else would you have triumphed over me, had your desires not become conviction, and your policy not become war?”

“Your implication was that war was the means, not the end, and yet your last words contest that. What policy, then, was I continuing with war, if the policy was itself war?”

“You are wise my lord. It is true that oftentimes the twain shall meet. But look to your gardens below for the answer,” he suggested, extending one elegant hand - too long, to sharp, too slender - down at the trimmed grasses and orange trees and burgeoning blooms. “When your soil is poor and your plants wilt, preferring sickness and decay to life, your gardeners throw refuse and rot to them, and the soil rejuvenates. As the desire to triumph death is satisfied through death, so the desire to triumph in war is satisfied through war. One cannot walk fearlessly through the veil of shadows if they are unwilling to confront these shadows and cloak themselves in darkness, too.”

"There is no satisfaction in darkness."

"Perhaps not. But there is truth. There is wisdom and discovery that the light will forever blind you to. Embrace the truth so that it may lead you to wisdom, and let that wisdom be the hammer that you use with the chisel of your desire to carve out the world that should be yours to rule. War, death, it does not matter. To have dominance, you must dominate. And whatever the war games tell you, this only comes through enlightenment."

"What manner of enlightenment?"

And Sauron smiled. 

## II. WILES

Amandil started as the flap of the documents tent was shunted aside and Elendil strode in, breathing hard. He dropped the scroll of food transport logistics in his hand and started forward, grabbing for his sword belt. “What is it?”

"He’s surrendered.” Elendil’s voice was soft, and shaking, and his eyes were bright with both hope and terror. 

Amandil froze. “You’re speaking of -”

“The Dark Lord. He has come from Mordor - alone - and surrendered.”

Amandil didn’t know what to think for moment. It was as though all critical thoughts had turned to cotton in his mind, and all he could see, unthinking, was the great map table in the chamber of the Council of the Sceptre, stretching from east to west, and himself taking a city-sized piece from the drawer and quietly setting it over the little inked tower that bore the words Barad-dûr.

Then he shook his head, his councillor’s mind crashing in on him all at once. “Has the King taken him into custody?” he asked. “Has he been restrained? Does he have the Ring?”

“Yes, yes, and no,” Elendil answered efficiently, already leading his father out and towards the King’s great tent that crowned the top of the hill. The encampment spiralled out from it and spread around it like an eddy of cherry blossoms, hundreds and hundreds of blue and white tents streaming red and gold banners like a wild meadow swaying under the light breezes of dawn. 

“What of Abrazimir and Zimrathôn?”

“They’ve been sent for. No doubt they’ll be along shortly.”

Amandil nodded and marched up to the guards stationed before the tent, his son keeping pace, and was met with a pair of suddenly crossed spears.

He stared at them, affronted. “Let me pass.”

“The King has requested not to be disturbed.”

“Are you telling me, lieutenant, that you left your sovereign alone with the Dark Lord?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “The King requested it, my lord. He has a complement of guards inside and-”

Amandil crossed his arms, looking down as he shouted, “Your grace! Your councillor of Andúnië requests an audience now.” There was silence for several moments, and then he called out, “Pharazôn, let me in.”

Again, there was no response for a time, before finally the King’s resonant voice called for him to enter. 

Amandil raised a brow at the flustered lieutenant who, along with his partner, withdrew their spears and allowed him to step forward. Wood clacked against wood and he turned round to see Elendil glaring daggers at the two men, held back by crossed spears. He caught his father’s eye and Amandil raised a placating hand, shaking his head. It was better his son stay away, for now. Amandil was already on edge, perturbed by what had clearly taken place. Pharazôn had not even deigned to summon his advisors before apprehending Sauron or commencing an audience with him. Having more than one person that he trusted even less than he trusted Amandil these days would only jeopardise his attempts to reason with the king - if such a thing could be done. He clearly believed himself capable of outmanoeouvering Sauron himself. 

Amandil knew better. It was perhaps arrogant for him to think so, he knew, but it was the truth. The Elendili did not make light of the fallen Maiar and the greater, darker power that had once commanded them. They did not use their pride as an excuse for complacency, at least in relation to the powers of Arda. And this particular Maia…Amandil swallowed heavily, his hand ghosting over the curtain separating the tent entrance from the interior. What he had not learned from the histories at the library in Andúnië, he had learned at his mother’s knee from folktales. He had plied the visiting elves of Tol Eressëa with earnestness and, to his child’s mind, clever turns of phrase, just for glimpses of the Elder Days. He had traded in ghost stories with his childhood friends - even with Pharazôn, in their much younger days - and had spent more than one sleepless night fearing vampires dripping blood and baying hellhounds and a forest of banners in the shape of bodies. 

He knew what was in that tent with his friend and king. It was therefore time to do his duty as advisor, commander, and longtime compatriot. Steeling himself, he swept aside the gauzy fabric and entered. 

The King was sprawled on his camp bed, unarmoured in a robe of Belegaer blue glinting with gold embroidery. Surrounding him were four of his King’s Men guard unit, including his Warrior, their swords drawn and pointed at the figure kneeling before the King, restrained by cuffs of heavy iron. 

Amandil was not sure what, precisely, he had expected. Someone twice the height of a man, for one thing, a shadowy presence that sucked in all the light in the room, a form that radiated light and heat and terror, rather than someone that looked so…ordinary. One could have mistaken him for an Elf, or even a Man, if not for the odd thing caught by the light. His fingers, resting delicately against his lower back, seemed too long, as if they ended in claws or an extra joint. His hair fell elegantly like a sheet of unlight down his back, a non-colour that could have been black. Whatever armour or tunic he had worn had been removed, perhaps as some feeble attempt at intimidation or shame. 

From the way he kneeled, subservient and yet with shoulders squared and chin held high, he felt neither intimidated nor ashamed. And when Pharazôn’s eyes lifted to Amandil’s, the Dark Lord’s did too, and the last Lord of Andúnië felt his stomach drop to his feet. In a face that looked as though it had been sculpted by the finest of Elven hands, eyes like voids stared back at him, dispassionate and evaluative for a moment before turning bitter and dark. Amandil felt the air around him pulse, as though something were trying to get in at him - to know him without speaking to him - and he knew that not only had he outright stated his allegiance for Sauron to hear, but Sauron understood what that allegiance entailed. From rumour, from inference, and from the strange realms of spirit and thought that he could walk but Amandil could not. Sauron understood what it meant to be the Lord and Councillor of Andúnië. And it clearly filled him with hate. 

Amandil had already managed to make even more of an enemy of this lesser god than he was already predisposed to be, and he hadn’t even addressed him yet. The thought would have given him a chuckle, if he wasn’t already so perturbed by the bizarre way the surrender was currently playing out. He squared his jaw, resting his hand on his sword as he raised his eyes to the King. “Your grace. You ought to have summoned Abrazimir, Zimrathôn, and I.”

“You doubt my ability to negotiate a surrender?” Pharazôn asked, but his voice made Amandil’s skin prickle. It sounded vague. Mesmerised. His eyes were fixed on Sauron, as though he were trying to figure out where the shapes of a puzzle fit. 

“I have no doubt of your skill,” Amandil affirmed. “I do have doubt of this creature’s integrity.”

Pharazôn tutted. “Come now, Amandil. You have more courtesy than that. The lord of Mordor, for all his arrogance and contempt, is still a sovereign deserving of a modicum of dignity.”

“Is that why you tore his tunic off?”

Now Pharazôn looked up, but Amandil wasn’t looking at him anymore. A cold, disturbing wash of confusion passed over him. He thought he had seen the corner of Sauron’s mouth quirk up in the beginnings of a smile that - odd as it may have been to think it - appeared conspiratorial. But as soon as Amandil had shifted his gaze to look properly, it was gone, and the bitterness of defeat marred the unnatural beauty of his face once again - if it had ever left at all. The King had clearly taken no notice of either of them, as he was now in the process of recounting the surrender - of how none had noticed until Sauron was halfway up the hill, so clever he was to hide his visage and his purposeful stride; of how the guards had parted and Pharazôn had stepped out of his tent, the dawn light in his face, limning the shadow rising before him; of how Sauron had sunk first to one knee, and then to both, and then, with the soldiers around the hilltop gasping and looking to one another in awe, had laid his forehead upon the earth like a worshipper in a temple, his arms stretched out before him and wrists already crossed, awaiting shackles. That had spoken louder than the myriad oaths of submission and fealty he uttered afterward ever could. 

He remained on his knees now, but what Amandil had first mistaken for diminutiveness was clearly something far more insidious.

“I suggest we convene the Council before taking further action,” Amandil said at last, “if only to assuage your fretful advisors, your grace.” 

Pharazôn tapped his finger on the edge of the camp bed, and then stood, staring down at the Maia on the ground who looked up at him with eyes equal parts critical and worshipful in their brightness and focus. The King was so transfixed that even before Amandil could do so, the King’s Warrior gave a small cough, and Pharazôn snapped back to focus, his lip curling in distaste that Amandil, after all his years of service, knew was more of a cover than a true display of his feeling. 

“Gather another platoon,” the King said. “I want half within the tent and half without until I finish this dialogue with my councillors.” He knelt down onto one leg to be eye to eye with the prisoner and Amandil instinctively wrapped his fingers round his sword hilt. 

“If you try anything,” Pharazôn murmured, “anything at all, I shall march this army over the mountains and lay waste to your fields, and your armies, and even shatter the mighty Tower itself down to its foundations. Do you understand?”

The Dark Lord smiled and bowed his head. “It is as I said, your grace. For the sake of my lands and my people, I am entirely, unequivocally, and unconditionally at your service.”

* * *

Armenelos was bright as noon and thick with a buzzing populace when they finally entered the city. Pharazôn gave a bold laugh upon seeing his cheering subjects, reveling in his pride as he marched forth, flanked by stunned, thrilled citizenry and a brutally armed guard lining the way to the palace.

But Amandil kept his eyes trained on Sauron. The once great lord looked upon the city, his eyes darting from the towering vase-shaped columns, their bases adorned with paintings of rushes, to the gleaming bas relief atop them depicting the icons of kings past; to the minarets inlaid with gold and lapis glinting in the sun and the woven banners that rolled gaily from them in hues of innumerable colour; to the guards of rank high and low with their brilliant armour and weapons of a calibre seen nowhere else on Middle-earth, and a discipline as faithful as the tide.

And Amandil perceived that those empty eyes suddenly filled to the brim with a hateful fire that seemed to burn blue in the sunlight, and his long fingers curled into fists, and the guards on either side of him quailed and hissed in pain as their gloves, clutching the bare skin of his arms, began to smoulder.

The moment the King turned around, however, the Dark Lord straightened up, and the light leached from his eyes, and his jaw unclenched and he bowed low - first from the neck, and then from the hips, and finally he kneeled before the King and his men and his advisors and his bewildered citizenry. A gasp and a cry echoed through the square, and then clapping and laughter and cries of joy.

That night, the streets of Armenelos were filled with a cacophony of cheering songs and the slurred voices of returned soldiers and old veterans and relieved mothers and even the cautious gratitude of the Elendili. _The Dark Lord no longer sits in his tower!_ they extolled, laughing and hugging each other. _He crouches in a cell! He is ours! May the strength of Númenor reign eternal! May it finally bring a lasting peace to all the world!_

But Amandil did not celebrate that night. He stood at the balcony of his councillor’s residence, looking out at the lanterns and lights of taverns open well past their usual hours, and at the glimmering stars of the cloudless sky.

“Father?”

He half turned to acknowledge Elendil stepping into the room, and returned his contemplation to the street.

“I’ve never seen you this troubled,” his son prodded. He was still wearing the tunic embroidered by his mother years ago, the light picking out the embroidered golden orchard spilling over the softly shining purple fabric. Elegant clothes, from a simpler time.

“I suppose any man should be troubled to be holding the Dark Lord hostage for his lands,” Amandil remarked. 

Elendil frowned, giving that knowing, skeptical smile that Amandil had come to expect from his perceptive, proactive child. He was becoming more and more of a leader with each day. “I think, adar,” he said, switching to Sindarin, “that we should be less concerned about holding him, and more concerned about how we will respond the moment he walks free from his cell.”

Amandil turned to face his son fully then, allowing his true concern to leak into his visage. “What contingencies do you propose?”

“Go east,” Elendil said at once.

“Have we not always put our faith in the West?”

Elendil crossed his arms. Amandil was struck by the fact that even when his expression was one of sympathy, the frown line remained etched between his brows. Had he really grown that old already? Had he really spent so many of those years caught in a web of worry and concern that it was now etched into his very skin?

“Adar,” he said, and Amandil had the sense that they were both bracing for what the other would say, “this is not a matter of Valinor and Númenór. This is Númenór versus Númenór. It has been for some time now. And the arrival of the Dark Lord on this island as inevitably tipped the scales too far away from our favour. We cannot succeed on our own anymore.” 

“Which is why we must continue to seek the counsel - the aid, if need be - of the Powers.”

“And risk their wrath by breaking the ban? We could never. And besides that,” he said sadly, “such a course of action would imply that our fight is with Sauron. It is not. It never has been. It is with our people, our fears, our vices. Either Númenór evolves, or we let the tide eat at this island until it is no more. And if it comes to that, adar, I would rather be on a boat sailing east to the lands we know rather than West to a fate we could well regret forever.”

## III. TRUTH

Númenór was a cesspit, which happened to work perfectly well for Mairon. The inkling of an idea had sustained him for the three years since he’d first descended the steps of Barad-dûr - and how swiftly he had been able to enact it in this place that reeked of fear, flooded with decadence like a stagnant pool, slowly burning away under the sun. It had not been as easy as he had expected. The King’s early bewitchment had quickly been put in check by that Lord of Andúnië who so loved to frown down on them from the moral, Meneltarma-fuelled high ground. It pleased Mairon that his machinations at court had finally driven the man’s suspicious, too-clever child to remove to the eastern port with the rest of his impulsive brood. It would not be long now before Amandil was forced to forsake his post on the Council of the Sceptre and go with him. 

All it required now was for Mairon to drop the last piece into play

"What manner of enlightenment?"

Mairon tapped his nails against the stone balcony in perfect mimicry to the King. 

"What indeed, your grace?" he mused, settling his hand on the sun-warmed balcony. He still had not iquite become used to the sensation of his finger laying flat, unimpeded by the Ring. He doubted he ever would. Yet it was a most potent reminder of just how important every word he was about to say would have to be. 

What indeed? Enlightenment had hardly done him any sort of service in the years since…since Angband, if he was being honest with himself.

And he had vowed to be honest with himself after Ost-in-Edhil. There was stupidity and sadness and failure in dishonesty. This was the hour of clarity. This was the hour of clear sight that pierced every wall, every veil, every cell and every mote. This was not Mairon quailing before great power, hot with the promise of all he could achieve. This was not Annatar full of excitement at creation and breaking barriers, only to be met with scorn the moment he decided to bring together his true form and the mask he wore to make it more palatable. This knowing that truth was a matter of circumstance, and that it was a far more powerful weapon than circumstance, and that any lie could become truth simply by how you said it and how often.

His master - no, his once master, his former master - he had imbued Mairon with something more enduring. Something Mairon was eager to transform for how it gnawed at him. Something that he could easily rationalise even though it seemed, intrinsically, to go against his nature.

It was a hunger for unmaking.

He turned to return to the study, knowing the King would follow. “The kind of enlightenment that will bring you to unclaimed, uncharted lands and seas, far to the east, and even farther to the west, and ultimately to the Ancient Darkness that lies beyond all of it. And in that darkness, your grace, is freedom to seek. In freedom is the strength to defeat your enemies and attain the power you deserve. And in strength is creation, and the world you desire to make, and the one who knows those makings with a depth even I shall never attain.”

Quiet footsteps sounded behind him - solid with weight, shaky with age. “Who is this one?”

Mairon plucked up the split grape that lay in the bowl, feeling a muscle under his eye twitch in annoyance. He was adept at controlling most things in his fana by now, but as long as he was turned aside and didn’t have to disguise his annoyance with waste and disorder, he wouldn’t. That in itself was, after all, a waste of energy, even if the optics ended up in his favour. 

He popped the fruit in his mouth and swallowed it, dissatisfied by mortal sustenance in this immortal flesh as he turned back to the King. 

“His name is Melkor, Lord of All, Giver of Freedom, and he shall make you stronger than they.”

**Author's Note:**

> The last line is quoted directly from Akallabeth. I also unconsciously quoted Clausewitz, somehow. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
